


Hard Target

by Ballofstring66



Category: Clint - Fandom, Clint Barton MCU, Hawkeye - Fandom, Hawkeye MCU, Jeremy Renner - Fandom, MCU, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), avengers MCU, shield - Fandom
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fluff, Intrigue, Jeremy Renner - Freeform, Spy Stuff, but we loves Hawkeye, ive no idea why I’m writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:29:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballofstring66/pseuds/Ballofstring66
Summary: Clint’s having a night off and just wants to be alone with his beer but what a surprise! Things don’t go to plan and he becomes an unexpected target.Short chapters cause I’m lazyThis is based on a story JR told in an interview with Graham NortonClint is single in this universe and it is set just after the first Avengers movie.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Sometimes he just needed a beer.

Not an expensive malt whisky or a dirty martini. 

He didn’t need a mission or a sense of purpose every day. 

He didn’t always need to be part of a team, to experience the camaraderie or the satisfaction of the job.

 _Sometimes_ he just needed a cold beer, in the corner of an ordinary bar, by himself.

 

Clint watched the bubbles rising up through the amber liquid and a faint smile played on his lips. It was a Saturday night and the bar was pretty noisy but not so packed that he couldn’t have a booth to himself. He didn’t mind the noise and the throng of kids out trying to get their kicks, it meant people noticed you less.

He breathed in the earthy aroma of hops as he raised the glass and savoured that for a moment. He knew that smell and taste were inextricably linked and you needed both to fully appreciate flavour. 

Something to do with receptors.

Actually he didn’t care much how it worked he just liked the end result.

 

The first hit was the head, creamy, almost like a dessert. Then the clean, sharp tang of lager that for a moment brought back memories of freshly cut grass, the sound of the fairground organ and the roaring crowd. He drank about a third in one go and put the glass back on the table, running his tongue across his lips with approving tilt of his head.

 

"Hey can I sit here?" 

 

It was his job to appraise people quickly, to be able to give an accurate description. 

_Female - fair hair not quite blonde cut to her chin - blue eyes - about 5’3" - late teens maybe - full figure and a plump face with a fresh complexion. English from her accent._

_Not a threat._

_Might be a pain in the ass though._

 

He arched an eyebrow and leaned out of his booth to check out the other empty booths before giving her a pointed look.

"Do you have to?"

"Obviously not but it seemed like a good conversation opener." She had a generous mouth and a pretty smile. 

"Right, well that seat’s taken so _sorry_ but you’re out of luck today, kid."

"My name’s Rosie, " Rosie said as she sat down. "What’s yours?"

 

_Pain in the ass confirmed._

 

"Does your mother know that you’re out, honey?"

"I’m thirty-one," Rosie grinned. "But thanks."

”You’re thirty- _one_? " Clint looked doubtful, "is that what your fake ID says?"

"Straight up. That’s the benefit of a fat face I suppose, fills out the wrinkles. "

Clint noted that there was nothing apologetic or self-deprecating about her - she seemed to be very happy in her skin which indicated a confidence that usually came with maturity.

 

"Okay so you’re thirty-one but you still can’t sit here so with all due respect, Rosie, fuck off."

"I’ll fuck off if you tell me your name. "

"You will huh? Those are your terms and conditions? "

"They are. I think you’ve got a good deal there if I’m honest."

"You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that."

"Thirty-one, " Rosie reminded him. "Don’t call me kid, it’s weird."

"You win. My name’s Steve. Have a good evening, Rosie." Clint raised his glass and turned his attention back to his beer. 

"You too, Steve. See ya."

To be fair she was as good as her word and slipped happily out of his booth, disappearing amongst the crowd. 

 

He made sure that she didn’t see him watch her go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The empty glass rattled back on the table and Clint contemplated his options. The bar was filling up and the crowd getting rowdier as the night went on. Pizza definitely figured somewhere in his immediate future but it had been a tough week so maybe just one more beer...

"Hey Steve. How’s it going?"

Rosie slipped back into the booth carrying two glasses. She pushed one across to Clint and flashed him a bright smile.

"You again? I thought we’d made a deal..?" 

"We did and I fucked off but I didn’t agree to _keep_ fucking off so now I’m back. You should read the small print more carefully."

 

There was something appealing about her confidence and the way she swore so casually in that clipped voice. Clint pursed his lips, appraising her through half closed eyes. She was cute enough. Her bobbed hair - a mess of waves - framing her pretty face. 

Eh. What the hell. It was Saturday night and what harm could it do? 

Clint reached for the beer.

 

"There _was_ no small print, Rosie. Are you a lawyer by any chance?".

"Nope. I work in a shop. What do you do?"

"I’m an assassin for a secret organisation."

"You _are_?" She wore an expression that was a mix of amused cynicism and fake enthusiasm. "Does it pay well?"

"Yeh it pays pretty well, how about the shop?"

"No they don’t pay well at _all_ , Steve."

"Huh. Sucks. Did you win something?" He pointed his glass towards the small white satin rosette she was wearing that she hadn’t had on earlier. It had ‘winner’ printed in gold in the centre.

"My friend gave it to me. What do you really do for a living?"

"Told you. I’m an assassin."

"Come on!"

He shrugged, "Can’t hide the truth."

"Are you single? Or married?"

"Doesn’t pay to give all your secrets away at once."

My money’s on married. I reckon your old lady's out of town and you’re out on the pull."

"The pull? What is that? Is that a British thing?"

"it means looking for action."

That made him laugh. "Oh really? Wow. You think I’m _that_ guy? I’d cheat on my fictional wife?" 

"So you’re not married? "

"No I’m not married. "

"Okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away."

 

He frowned as she slipped away through the crowd again, aware he’d just been played and it had been pretty slick. 

Someone had put some money in the jukebox and _Somebody that I Used to Know_ blared out. He caught the sound of high pitched cheers at the far end of the bar and drank his beer. He noted that Rosie hadn’t touched hers.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

She was back within a few minutes, her face a little more flushed than it was before. Clint scooted over and patted the space on the seat beside him.

"Why don’t you sit next to me, Rosie?" he invited, his free hand still wrapped around the beer glass. It seemed like she wasn’t expecting that and couldn’t quite hide her double take at this turn of events but went with it anyway. 

 

"Don’t mind if I do, " Rosie grinned and parked herself on the battered leather seat working that pretty smile and those wayward curls. Clint caught a hint of perfume - a light, citrussy scent that threatened to distract him.

"You didn’t drink all your beer, " she observed, disappointment creasing her forehead. 

"Is that a problem?"

She gave him an odd look and her hand slipped beneath the table. Clint moved fast and caught her wrist in a tight grip, yanking her up close to him.

 

"What’s in your pocket, Rosie?"

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"Did you spike my drink, Rosie, hmm?" he rasped in her ear. "Who are you, where are you from?"

"Spike your drink? Nooo..." she squeaked in bewilderment as she tried to wriggle away from him. "Why do you think I’d do that? "

"You didn’t drink yours."

"I don’t like beer..."

"Then why’d you buy it...?"

"I heard it makes people like you, if you drink what they drink. I’ll drink the bloody beer if you want ...I’ll drink _your_ beer if you want, I tell you I didn’t spike it. I’d _never_ do that..."

 

That made him pause. Her green eyes were staring up at him in what seemed like genuine shock

 

"What about the interrogation technique? Pretty slick..."

"... _what_? Please let me go..." she struggled harder  against his grip.

"Where’d you learn to fish for information like that?"

"I told you, I work in customer service, the public are idiots, we have to be good at communication what is _wrong_ with you? If you don’t let me go, I’m going to start yelling."

 

Her initial shock was hardening into an escape strategy and he could see her working out just how likely he was to really do her some damage but he couldn’t shake the instinct that she had a hidden agenda somehow. 

 

"What are you up to?"  he insisted. 

"I’m not up to anything. You’re nuts. Let me go."

"I know there’s _something_ going on - tell me what it is."

"Alright - _alright_...my friend is getting married, we’re on a hen night - a bachelorette party, " she corrected herself. "We set each other stupid tasks and you’re mine..."

"I’m what?"

"They asked the barman who the most miserable, grumpiest hardest to approach guy in here was and he said _you,"_ she scowled at him accusingly.  _"_ He said I’d never even get your name and we’d get a free bottle of champagne if I ... anyway.   So my task was to flirt and get information out of you and what have you. That’s what the rosettes are for. "

 

He’d noticed she’d got another pinned to her shirt. 

_Dammit! Should’ve worked that out. This damn job, it’s screwing with my head._

 

"What’s in your pocket?"

"Peanuts."

"Show me. Slowly."

He let her wrist go and watched her reach into her jeans to pull out a crumpled packet that she slapped on the table so hard the bag split and salted nuts rolled everywhere. 

Clint sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. 

"Okay. _Sorry_ kid. Occupational hazard. " He had the grace to sound as apologetic as he looked. 

"Occupational _hazard?_ What the fuck do you do? Oh that’s right, you’re an assassin for a secret organisation." Rosie had exited the seat next to him pretty sharpish but didn’t leave. She stood at the end of the table rubbing her wrist and frowning at him as if she were trying to decide whether to call the cops or not. He couldn’t blame her if she did.

"I said I’m sorry. You want me to look at that...?" He nodded towards her wrist which she then drew closer to her chest and well away from him. 

"Are you trying to imply that you really _are_ an assassin?" 

He shrugged, realising he’d managed to manoeuvre himself into a conversational corner. ‘Tasha would despair at every move he’d made tonight. He made a mental note not to tell her. Though he knew she’d winkle it out of him eventually. 

"Is Steve even your name?"

Clint shook his head. 

"What is it then?"

"Clint."

Rosie perched on the edge of the opposite seat, her legs facing outwards.

Ready to run he noted.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

"Are you okay?"

Clint looked up,  surprised at the question and the way the tone in her voice had settled and softened. She was pretty drunk, he realised, he could see it in her eyes - she held her drink well though he had to give her that because she hadn’t really shown it until now - but this slightly less wired version of Rosie was a lot more interesting.  He wondered why she hadn’t just left.

"I’m fine, kid. _You_ okay? I promise I don’t make a habit of abusing women." 

"Do you need me to call anyone? "

"No, I’m good, " It was his turn to look confused. "Why are you asking?"

She gave him a long hard, stare before she spoke but when she did she sounded stone cold sober. "Because you look like you’ve seen some shit - you look like the squaddies at home that come back from posting overseas that cry in the shower and lose their temper at the least little thing and beat their wives."

"So now I beat my fictional wife as well as cheat on her? Looks like I’m getting divorced..."

They both smiled at that.

"Sounds like you’ve had personal experience of that?" he ventured. 

"Not me, my sister. Her husband served two terms in Afghanistan. Poor bastard ended up in a mental hospital. I can’t imagine what he went through but I took her to A and E enough times that my sympathy is limited."

"A and E?"

"Accident and emergency."

"Are you afraid of me, Rosie?"

"I don’t think you’re going to punch me in the face if that’s what you mean but I’m not exactly sure what you _are_ capable of. If you need some ...help...I’m happy to call someone for you. "

"I’m all good, Rosie, thanks anyway. It’s just been a tough week. I’m sorry about earlier - I hope it doesn’t bruise."

"A tough week? What’s a tough week for an assassin? Did you miss your target? Or is the problem that you _didn’t_ miss?"

"I never miss."

"Hmm." She uttered the sound as if he had just confirmed something for her. 

Rosie seemed to be weighing him up. Finally she swung her knees in  and stretched across the table, her fingers brushing his as they wiggled the beer glass from his hand. She gave him a pointed look and drained what was left in his glass - nearly a half - in one long steady gulp. Her face screwed up at the taste and she pushed the other glass, still full, across the table to him.

"See. Not spiked."

It was an unexpected and strangely touching gesture.

"So I’m the hardest target in here huh?" He took a mouthful from the full glass. 

"Yep. The guy at the bar said you come in a couple of times a week and barely speak to him never mind anyone else. "

"Probably true. So what do you need to do to win the game... or whatever it is?"

"Doesn’t matter."

"I feel like I owe you. So what can I do...?"

"Okay. The guy didn’t think you’d even tell me your name - which you didn’t actually but never mind - so he said if I got a kiss out of you he’d give us a free bottle of champagne. "

"A kiss?"

"You don’t have to it’s fine."

"You wanna win the game?"

"Yeh but ...really, it’s fine. I’m going back to my friends. It was ...mostly ...nice to meet you, Clint. Hope your week gets better."

And with that she slipped away through the crowd and this time he was sure she wasn’t coming back.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
